13
Campbell
The glow of my alarm clock painted the walls in eerie red shadows, the numbers glaring like an accusation. 3:12a.m. Another night gone. Another important game creeping closer.
I lay sprawled on my bed, staring at the ceiling as if it held the answers, but it never did. My chest felt tight, a band of invisible steel constricting with every breath. I shifted onto my side, then my stomach, trying to shake the feeling, but it only grew sharper, heavier, suffocating.
The air in the room was stifling. Like I couldn’t pull in enough oxygen, no matter how hard I tried. My hand grasped the latch; the window flew open, admitting the cool night air. The sharp bite of the imminent winter wind hit my face. I pressed my forehead against the frame, my damp skin meeting the icy glass. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, erratic and wild, like it didn’t belong to me.
“Get it together.” I muttered, my voice hoarse and unconvincing.
I dragged my hands through my hair, tugging slightly, grounding myself in the sharp sting. My fingers shook as I clenched them into fists, nails digging into my palms. The pain helped, but not enough. Never enough.
The desk lamp flickered to life as I reached for my phone. I scrolled, the bright screen burning in my eyes, but the images blurred together. Nothing held my attention. I kept going back to the text from my father.
You better be practicing. Those scouts will be watching.
My throat tightened, and I shoved my phone away like it was on fire. The text searing itself into my mind, anyway. My breaths came swallow and fast, my ribcage rising and falling like a caged animal. The rational part of my brain screamed I was fine, that I was just having a dreadful night. But the rest of me was drowning. I flickered my lamp off, hoping the darkness could swallow me whole.
??
My grip tightened on my stick as the coach’s voice droned on about strategy, lines and plays. The words blurred together, a cacophony of noise that barely registered. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat louder than the last. I glanced around the room, hoping to ground myself in the familiar faces of my teammates.
Some were laughing, their nerves masked with easy grins and casual banter. Others sat like me, staring at their gear, their thoughts miles away. Scouts frequented the stands yet tonight felt unique. Bigger. Like everything hinged on this one game.
“Campbell, you good?” Kendall asked.
“Yeah,” I replied, my voice tight. “I’m good.”
Kendall didn’t look convinced, but he gave a curt nod and moved on, clapping another teammate on the shoulder. My gaze dropped back on my stick. The tape didn’t look right. The uneven edges mocked me, a physical representation of my imperfections. I peeled at a loose corner. My hands were clammy, my fingers trembling just enough to make the simple task infuriating.
“Get it together, Atwood.” I muttered, the words barely audible over the noise of the locker room.
The sharp whistle of the coach broke through the noise.
“Let’s go, boys! Time to hit the ice.”
The room erupted into motion, players grabbing helmets, adjusting pads, and clattering toward the tunnel. I was slower to rise, my body felt heavier with every step. I adjusted my gloves and helmet, but the familiar routine brought little comfort.
The tunnel was dim, the roar of the crowd muffled but unmistakable. My breath came shallow, my vision narrowing as reality pressed down on me. The scouts were out there. My father’s voice rang louder in my mind. Don’t embarrass yourself. Kendall appeared at my side again, nudging me with his elbow.
“Hey,” he said, his voice cutting through the haze. “Just play your game, okay? Forget the rest. You’ve got this, Captain.”
I gave a sharp nod, not trusting myself to speak. I stepped onto the ice, the cool air hitting my face like a slap. The crowd’s roar grew deafening, the lights blinding as they reflected off the polished surface.
I took my position for the warm-up, skating a few laps to loosen my legs. The puck slid toward me, and I stopped it with my stick, my movements mechanical. My teammates called out to each other, their voices blending with the arena’s noise, but I stayed silent.
The first faceoff loomed, the opposing team lining up across from us. I crouched, my stick poised over the ice. The referee dropped the puck, and the game began. The first shift was a blur of movement—skates carving into the ice, sticks clashing, the puck ricocheting off the boards. I was hyper-aware of every mistake, every pass I could’ve made cleaner, every shot I should’ve taken. My father’s voice remained a constant presence, louder now.
You can do better than this.
As the period wore on, my chest only grew heavier. Each glance towards the stands blurred my vision; I saw only a mass of scouts. I couldn’t determine whether they were taking notes or ignoring me. My legs felt leaden when the first period ended. I skated off the ice with my team, my head pounding, the crowd a distant echo. Coach was talking again in the locker room, gesturing at the whiteboard, but I didn’t hear him. I sat on the bench, my helmet dangling from my hand, staring at the floor. I needed to stop overthinking this.
As the second period began, the band around my chest loosened. The puck dropped; instinct took over.
**
I clenched my fists, my gloves creaking under the stain. My chest heaved with each breath, the sting of failure burning hotter every second. I slumped on the bench. My stick felt heavier in my hands, as if absorbing all the weight.
The rest of the period passed in a blur. I was on the ice, but not in the game. I went through the motions–stick down, skate hard, pass the puck, but every move felthollow. The puck eluded me, and I felt sluggish. I couldn’t catch a break.
Shake it off, Campbell. You’re overthinking. Just play, I thought, but my advice didn’t stick. My father’s voice was louder. Not aggressive enough. Weak under pressure. Missed key opportunities.
The second-period buzzer sounded; the return to the locker room seemed long. My skates dragged across the rubber mats, my head low as the team filed inside. Frustration and determination fueled a tense atmosphere. The coach barked instructions, outlining the adjustments we needed to make, but I barely heard him. Why do I always choke when it matters most? I’m letting everyone down. I’m wasting my shot. Kendall dropped onto the bench beside me, setting his helmet on the floor with a heavy sigh.
“Alright, talk to me,” he said, his voice low but firm. “What’s going on with you tonight?”
I didn’t answer. I just stared at my skates, the scuffed leather and dulled steel mocking me.
“I’m just—” I swallowed hard, my throat dry. “I’m messing up. Big time.”
“You’re in your head,” Kendall said, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “It happens. But we need you out there, Cap. This team needs you. Forget the scouts, forget your dad, forget the crowd.”
I scoffed, shaking my head.
“It’s not that simple.”
“It is,” Kendall insisted, his grip tightening. “The scouts are watching, yeah. But you will not impress them by second-guessing yourself. Trust your instincts. You’re our captain for a reason.”
I looked up, meeting his steady gaze. A brief easing of the tightness in my chest occurred. I nodded, the motion was stiff but determined.
“Alright,” I muttered. “You’re right.”
**
The third period began, and I hit the ice with renewed focus. The puck felt different from my stick now—more familiar, more natural. I made my passes, my skating sharp. When the puck found me again near the blue line, I didn’t hesitate. I wound up, let the slapshot fly, and watched as it soared past the goalie’s outstretched glove, hitting the back of the net with a satisfying clang . The crowd exploded; relief washed over me. I skated over, slamming into him with a congratulatory hug.
“That’s what I’m talking about, Atwood!”
I smiled—small, but genuine. Perhaps this game wasn’t over for me.
**
I slumped onto the bench, my chest heaving as I tried to catch my breath, watching the game unfold, cheering as I watched the game-winning goal. However, the weight on my chest hadn’t lifted. Every muscle in my body was so tight it felt like it might snap.
The final buzzer sounded, and the team poured onto the ice to celebrate our victory. I followed, skating through the throng of players, accepting high-fives and pats on the back. The crowd roared with their approval, but it all felt distant, like a soundtrack to someone else’s life. The moment we hit the locker room, the noise intensified—players laughing, shouting, reliving the highlights. I hung back, peeling off my gear in silence. My gloves thudded onto the floor, and I ran a hand through my sweat-dampened hair, avoiding the congratulations being thrown my way.
“You alright, Atwood?” Coach called out, his voice cutting through the din.
I nodded, plastering another fake smile.
“Yeah, just tired.”
He gave me a sharp look, but he didn’t push.
“You did good out there. That last goal? That’s what they’re gonna remember.”
I swallowed hard and nodded again, but my stomach twisted. One goal doesn’t erase everything else.
The shower was scalding hot, but it did nothing to soothe the ache in my chest. As the steam swirled around me, my mind replayed every misstep, every mistake. Even the goal felt tainted, like a lucky break rather than a testament to my skill. My teammates left before I finished dressing. Silence fell on the empty rink as the Zamboni resurfaced the ice. I hesitated, glancing up at the stands where the scouts had been. My chest tightened again, my father’s voice a relentless presence in my mind.
The chilly night air hit me like a slap. I exhaled, watching my breath cloud in front of me. My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out with a sinking feeling. A text from Dad.
We need to talk about tonight.
I stared at the screen, my jaw tightening. I shoved my phone back into my pocket and started walking; the snow crunching under my feet. The victory should’ve felt sweet, but all I could taste was bitterness.